Elio’s Notes: The chapter title echoes a line from Li Yu’s later ci poem Po Zhen Zi, where he looks back on Southern Tang’s former splendor and asks when he had ever known war. Here, the line is used before that future has happened, which gives the title a deliberately ominous edge.
In the sixth year of Xiande under Emperor Shizong of Later Zhou, the ruler of Jiangnan ceded all the prefectures north of the Yangtze.
The realm remained unsettled.
Jinling, the imperial city. The Han Residence.
A vast pond filled the courtyard, its dampness clinging to one’s robes.
Far away, palace lanterns blazed and seductive music soared to the heavens, yet none of it reached the inner courtyard. All around was still. Slowly, there seemed to come the sound of flowers bursting into bloom,
while indoors the faint fragrance of red sandalwood lingered almost without a trace.
Someone was being awaited.
Han Xizai summoned a maid to replenish the incense. There came a soft rustling, followed by the sweep of a crimson skirt across the floor.
Out of consideration for his guest’s preferences, he had specifically ordered red sandalwood burned. Yet tonight the imperial palace in Jinling was once again filled with song and dance, and the nobles naturally remained seated at the banquet. Han Xizai, already nearing old age, could only continue waiting. Night had long fallen, and who knew how many times the incense had been replenished, yet the guest he was waiting for still had not appeared.
The maid Hongxiu ran a hand over the table, secretly puzzled. Her master had always loved banquets, music, and dancing, yet tonight, when His Majesty himself was holding a feast, he had pleaded illness and shut his doors. It truly made no sense.
No one dared ask. As Hongxiu withdrew, she caught sight of a servant guiding a young gentleman in brocade slowly around the bend in the corridor. In the heavy night, by the wavering paper lantern carried by the man ahead of him, she lifted her eyes and saw only the moonlight tracing the visitor’s elegant profile in scattered silver.
His steps were unhurried, each one measured and distinct. Amid the shifting light and shadow, his sleeve brushed against a flowering tree beside the corridor, sending blossoms drifting across the ground.
Perhaps it was accidental, yet somehow perfectly timed.
Her embroidered shoe came down unexpectedly upon the fallen petals, and for some reason she could hardly bear it.
Hongxiu lowered her head slightly as their parties passed one another. She clearly caught a faint scent of red sandalwood. She could not tell whether it was the lingering fragrance that had clung to her while tending the incense or a trace carried on the breeze as he passed. She saw only his wrist hanging beside his robe, slender and exquisitely formed, exposed beyond the cuff of his brocade outer garment. Beneath it showed a translucent sliver of blue-green cloth. The night was deep and the wind strong; anyone could tell that the brocade robe concealed a person of no ordinary standing.
She did not dare look back and hurried away.
The lamps and candles of the Han Residence that night were nowhere near as extravagantly brilliant as rumor claimed. The servants led the guest to the only brightly lit room in the inner courtyard. He gave a quiet sigh before entering, while his page, Piaopeng, remained outside in the corridor. Inside, Han Xizai was adjusting the incense burner. The moment he saw the visitor, he hurried forward to pay his respects and pour tea.
For a time, neither spoke.
After taking a small sip of warm tea, the brocade-robed gentleman raised his face in the candlelight. One of his eyes bore double pupils. He was Li Congjia, Sixth Prince and Duke of Anding.
Elio’s Notes: Traditional Chinese physiognomy sometimes treated double pupils as an extraordinary sign associated with rulers or sages. Historical and legendary accounts of Li Yu, then still known as Li Congjia, famously attribute this feature to him.
Even the way he raised a hand to touch the teacup was unusually graceful. “My lord summoned me here so late at night. I fear it cannot be good news.”
Han Xizai neither confirmed nor denied it. His expression grew heavier. “The Prince of Qi has died.”
Li Congjia’s pale fingertips immediately stilled, gripping the cup tightly, while he himself slowly sat down. Only after a long while did he lift his head, and there seemed almost to be a smile on his face. “So he still went this far.”
Han Xizai sat opposite him. There was already some white in his hair, though his face did not yet reveal his true age. Everyone knew that despite his high office, his conduct was considered dissolute and he delighted in wine, music, and dancing, yet few knew that he could look as troubled as he did tonight. “The Prince of Qi was poisoned. Word has not leaked out these past few days.” He paused to drink some tea. “It was an uncommon poison. Qingu.”
“Qingu?” Li Congjia lowered his head slightly, unconsciously pressing his lips together. Half his face lay in shadow, making his unusual pupils appear even more eerily beautiful.
Elio’s Notes: Qingu (沁骨) is the poison’s name. The phrase evokes cold or sensation penetrating deep into the bones, which matches the poison’s nature in the story.
“This poison must be prepared using snow water from the bitterly cold lands of the north. It very rarely appears in Jiangnan. Once poisoned, the victim dies almost immediately, and the symptoms closely resemble sudden death from heart disease, making it easy to conceal. The Crown Prince has truly made up his mind.”
Li Congjia sighed and tapped his fingers lightly against the porcelain cup, murmuring something beneath his breath. At any other time, Han Xizai would have taken up a brush to copy it down. Who in Jinling did not know of Chongguang’s literary brilliance? Every lyric and every melody he composed was a marvel among mortals.
Elio’s Notes: Chongguang is Li Congjia’s courtesy name.
But what circumstances were they in now?
Poetry and music could not save a life. No matter whose life it was.
Han Xizai took the teacup from his hand and stared directly into that double-pupiled eye. He wanted to see something there, even panic, yet there was nothing. “Perhaps before long, the next report this subject receives will be news of the Duke of Anding’s death.”
“Then I ask Lord Han to remember to search for the score of the Rainbow Skirt and Feathered Robe Dance on my behalf.” Li Congjia did not look at him after speaking, merely leaning slightly against the table.
Han Xizai could not help growing frustrated. This was simply how Li Congjia was. Day and night, his thoughts revolved around that lost melody, while life and death were left entirely to Heaven. Yet if human life and death truly belonged wholly to Heaven, what need was there for him to exhaust his heart composing all these joys, sorrows, meetings, and partings? “Does the Duke of Anding truly have no intention of resisting?” For seven years Han Xizai had assisted the Crown Prince and regarded him almost as a son. He understood Li Hongji’s nature better than most. If the Crown Prince could kill his own uncle, then he could certainly kill a brother.
Yet Han Xizai did not want him to descend this far for wealth and glory.
Was a throne truly worth paying for with so many lives? Perhaps the price was not merely lives.
For a long while, each remained lost in thought.
At last Li Congjia spoke. “My lord claims to be protecting me, but in truth you are protecting the Crown Prince.”
Han Xizai did not deny it. “His mind has been driven frantic. His Majesty said last month that he intended to summon the Prince of Qi back, and the Crown Prince immediately took action. Anyone with eyes can see it. If something now happens to the Duke of Anding as well, the Crown Prince will not survive the consequences, and disaster will follow for the state.”
Li Congjia closed his eyes as though tired and slowly said, “If the Crown Prince falls, Lord Han will inevitably be implicated as well. Supporting me in opposing him would keep His Majesty from directing all his anger at the Crown Prince alone. It would also give you something with which to restrain the Crown Prince’s ambition.”
“If that is how the Duke of Anding chooses to see it, this old subject has nothing more to say. But I have served two generations of rulers, and His Majesty entrusted me with teaching [the Crown Prince] for seven years. Now, after all this, to watch him become trapped in a struggle for the throne…” He paused, looking at Li Congjia’s weary expression. “I cannot help blaming myself. Besides, I know that you and the Crown Prince were never supposed to… never supposed to become what you are today.”
Elio’s Notes: The JJWXC raw itself contains two blank squares in the phrase describing whom Han Xizai taught for seven years. Context clearly points to the Crown Prince, so I have restored the referent in brackets rather than silently pretending the damaged text is complete.
After all these years, the two children who had once studied and practiced calligraphy together had each received princely rank and set off down separate roads. “Duke of Anding,” Han Xizai said solemnly, “do you still remember that broken string?”
Cicadas cried on a summer night.
He called him Sixth Brother. A long blue-green robe, paler than blue and clearer than green, just that single faint wash of Tianshui Blue: his sixth brother sat there with his eyes gently closed, playing the guqin.
That year, the newly completed Flowing Wind Pavilion in the Crown Prince’s residence stood alone at the center of the lake, joined to either bank only by a narrow stone path wide enough for one person. It was like a peony blooming suddenly upon the tranquil water. During construction, the craftsmen had devised countless ingenious possibilities and debated them for days, until the Crown Prince received one final scroll. It was unfurled lightly: pale mist over waves, a pavilion standing beside the water, the artist unknown. Yet that one painting had easily won a nod from the proud Crown Prince.
Not long afterward, Flowing Wind Pavilion was completed,
lacking only one person before it could become a painting.
That day, Li Congjia came to see him,
and a servant reported, “The Duke of Anding is asked to wait. His Highness the Crown Prince is studying in the library with Grand Tutor Han.”
Sixteen-year-old Li Congjia stood by the lake holding his guqin and gazed toward the pavilion in the distance. A maid nearby bit her lip and stole a glance at him. So the rumors of an emperor’s physiognomy were true. There really was a person born with double pupils in one eye.
Li Congjia happened to turn his head. His gaze, deep as ink, frightened the maid into lowering hers at once. He laughed softly. “When the Crown Prince is free, tell him I am at Flowing Wind Pavilion. I will look around by myself. You may go.”
His tone was mild. Then he simply turned and walked away alone, showing none of the lofty airs people might privately imagine in someone born to royalty. Even his voice was gentle as a spring breeze, yet once he spoke, one could not refuse.
At the time, Han Xizai had still been charged by His Majesty with instructing the Crown Prince. Beneath the wooden window, Li Hongji sat composed and self-contained, yet there was something in his heart unlike his father’s.
He did not lose himself in sensual pleasures, but neither did he bury himself blindly in books. He wanted only what he himself believed worth wanting.
He read what he believed he ought to read and was never easily guided. Even when he was only a teenager, Han Xizai could already see something in him,
something he could not name, yet it was always there. Many years later, Han Xizai finally understood. It was ambition.
The ambition of a boy, perhaps, but ambition nonetheless.
On the sheet of xuanzhi before him, Li Hongji had not yet finished neatly writing the character guo, “state.” From outside the window came the faint strains of Linjiangxian. The notes entered his ears one by one. His brush suddenly stopped, and a dark blot of ink slowly spread across the paper,
Elio’s Notes: The character 國 (guo) means “state,” “realm,” or “country.” The raw deliberately calls attention to Li Hongji leaving its final stroke unfinished, turning a calligraphy detail into political imagery.
“Crown Prince…?” Han Xizai looked at him in confusion.
Without loosening his fingers from the brush, Li Hongji stared at the stiff unfinished character. His expression remained unchanged. He shook his head, raised his hand, and swept the sheet of paper to the floor. “Grand Tutor, we will stop here today.” He straightened his robes and left on his own.
The guqin continued to sound. Han Xizai turned and looked at the paper. The final stroke of the character for state had never been completed.
The servants lowered their heads, intending to report that the Duke of Anding was waiting at Flowing Wind Pavilion, but Li Hongji did not wait for them to finish. Alone and silent, he followed the sound of the guqin past layer upon layer of flowering trees and winding corridors,
until at last he saw him,
playing the guqin.
In the pavilion at the heart of the lake, even the faintest breeze could pass straight through, stirring flowers and willow branches. Dressed in a long Tianshui Blue robe, Li Congjia sat alone within it, smiling at wind and moon. From the shore, Li Hongji could not see his pupil clearly, nor penetrate the depths of that dark pool of an eye. He could only see his hair lifting in the breeze as ripples spread across the lake.
If he could not see those eyes, perhaps he himself could remain calm.
Li Hongji slowly walked toward Flowing Wind Pavilion. His elaborate long robe spread behind him as though he were wading over the water. One step, then another. Just as he entered the pavilion,
the guqin string snapped.
“The string broke.” Li Hongji sat opposite him.
The man before him lifted a hand, a bead of blood rolling down from his fingertip. Unconcerned, Li Congjia set aside his guqin, Xiangquan, and smiled as gently as ever. “Congjia let his mind wander.” Though they were full brothers born of the same father and mother, they were nothing alike. Li Congjia was refined and elegant, while Crown Prince Li Hongji was stern by nature and widely feared, untouched by the decadent tastes common among the imperial clan.
Li Hongji’s expression softened. Smiling, he leaned over to pluck the broken string. The guqin was called Xiangquan. “Flowing Wind and Xiangquan. Sixth Brother is as refined as ever.”
“I heard of Your Highness’s great victory over the Wuyue forces and came especially to congratulate you. I had only just composed this piece and had not yet finished playing it. A pity…”
“What disturbed Sixth Brother’s thoughts?”
Li Congjia did not answer. He rose and rested a hand on the railing surrounding the pavilion. “Are you satisfied with this congratulatory gift?”
“I knew something with such spirit could only have come from you.” Mountains and water formed its backdrop, and the pavilion gathered every elegant vista into itself. Compared with the flattery of nobles and gifts piled up in gold and silver, the scroll Li Congjia had sent was not merely a gift. It was spirit and character.
How could Li Hongji fail to understand him?
In the distance, Han Xizai wandered through the garden with a book in hand. Raising his eyes, he saw the extraordinary figure in an embroidered blue-green robe within Flowing Wind Pavilion and knew the Sixth Prince had come. He remained beneath a flowering tree and watched from afar as the two brothers drank tea and talked.
After a while, Li Congjia rose to leave, carrying Xiangquan in his arms. He walked ahead along the same stone path. The green stone lay almost level with the surface of the lake and had grown slick with moisture. Distracted by the guqin in his arms, he lost his footing. Li Hongji immediately reached out from behind and caught his arm.
A breeze passed,
and Li Hongji clearly smelled the red sandalwood fragrance on him. White cloud patterns had been embroidered into the pale blue-green robe, and beneath the cuff appeared a narrow, exquisitely slender wrist. He had always thought Sixth Brother’s wrists especially beautiful, beautiful enough that every lift of his hand became scenery.
Neither moved. The Crown Prince was the first to speak. “Sixth Brother is still as careless as ever.”
Li Congjia smiled as well. “I cannot compare with Your Highness, who trained in riding and archery from childhood. Congjia has no talent for charging into battle and killing enemies.” The words were neither warm nor cold, just like the distance between them. Ahead and behind. Intimate and distant. Near and far.
A boundary that could not be crossed, yet never sank into servility.
Li Hongji sighed, his voice very low. “I have returned victorious this time, yet every other sentence from Sixth Brother is ‘Crown Prince.’ You have become much more distant.” His hand naturally reached toward Li Congjia’s arms to take Xiangquan. “I still remember when you were little. You always called me Brother Hongji.”
Li Congjia did not release the instrument. He turned slightly aside from Li Hongji’s reaching hand and continued toward the shore. Koi swam on either side of the path, occasionally scattering glints of light across the water. “Crown Prince.” He turned and gestured for Li Hongji to look into the lake. “Didn’t you just ask what distracted Sixth Brother?”
Li Hongji looked at the fish and heard Li Congjia slowly say, “While I was playing, I suddenly saw a carp leap the Dragon Gate. I lost concentration and broke the string.”
Elio’s Notes: The image of a carp leaping the Dragon Gate traditionally symbolizes a dramatic rise in status or transformation after overcoming a difficult threshold. Given that this conversation is between a Crown Prince and a younger brother believed to possess an emperor’s physiognomy, Li Congjia’s choice of image is pointed.
In the end, Han Xizai watched the Duke of Anding walk ashore alone with the guqin in his arms, leaving the Crown Prince standing by himself on the stone path for a long time. Mist rose from the water and dampened his robes, yet he seemed unaware.
Back then, he had said, I still remember when you called me Brother Hongji.
Years passed,
and now that same elder brother had killed his own uncle.
Where was that guqin now?
Suddenly, Li Congjia missed the sound of Xiangquan.
Looking at the worried Han Xizai, Li Congjia’s eyes remained as dark as ink. After a long while, he gently shook his head. “Whether I remember that string is not important. What matters is whether the Crown Prince still remembers.”
“If he truly acts against you, does the Duke of Anding still intend not to fight?”
“It is not that I refuse to fight. I simply know him. If he wants something, he will make certain he gets it. I will not be his obstacle. The only person who can become Li Hongji’s obstacle is Li Hongji himself.” Red sandalwood fragrance drifted lazily around the clean line of his wrist. He brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen over his shoulder and rose with a faint smile. “If you have time, Ehuang is still hoping Hongxiu will come to the residence. She is waiting to practice the piece we discussed last time.” He reached out and pushed open the door. Moonlight immediately spilled across the entire room.
Li Congjia turned to say farewell, blocking the spring scenery of the pond behind him. His double-pupiled eye seemed almost bewitching. Even splendid robes edged in gold could not conceal that wisp of pure spirit.
He left with exactly the right measure. He had never fought Li Hongji for anything, nor had he ever wanted to.
After helping Madam Han prepare for bed, Hongxiu happened to see Li Congjia leaving. The basin of half-cooled water in her hands immediately reflected the embarrassment on her face. She stepped aside beneath the corridor and finally dared look at him from afar.
Returning to her own room, she rolled up her crimson sleeves and soaked both hands in warm water. After some time, she noticed the wax building on the candlewick and remembered it needed trimming. Only then did she realize her hands had been soaking too long and had begun to ache faintly.
Hongxiu stared blankly at those hands. She dried them and raised them carefully to her nose. Still,
the scent of red sandalwood.
After leaving the Han Residence, Li Congjia told Piaopeng and the other attendants to take the carriage back without him. He would walk home alone beneath the moonlight. The Duke of Anding was known for his elegant and free nature, so none of the servants dared object. For a time, the Jinling night belonged to him alone.
Music still spilled from the imperial palace, another extravagant banquet of song and dance. He should have been sitting there himself, listening to music and reciting poetry. Someone had once said, “Sixth Brother was born to indulge himself.”
Who had said it?
He laughed soundlessly. Only his shadow lay on the ground. Without splendid robes upon it, one could see neither their color nor any double pupil. It was nothing more than a thin shadow.
Even its outline was indistinct.
Indulge myself? Li Congjia’s beautiful wrist showed beneath the night wind as his fingers lightly pressed against his forehead.
That year, Crown Prince Li Hongji had returned victorious, his arrogance burning brighter than ever. Who did not know that he was a man whose eyes were fixed upon the whole realm?
That same year, every street and alley of Jinling rang with the lyrics and melodies of the Sixth Prince.
One man’s ambition reached toward Heaven; the other lingered beside the water, singing into evening.
They had never been the same kind of people.
“Hermit of Zhongshan, Hermit of Zhongfeng, Recluse of Lotus Peak?” Li Hongji’s black hair streamed freely in the wind as he laughed. “Sixth Brother wants to become a hermit?” Behind him, an attendant held a red sandalwood box wrapped in brocade patterned with ten thousand blessings. The Crown Prince had personally come to the Duke of Anding’s residence, only to learn that Li Congjia had recently moved into the mountains, intending to live the life of a recluse amid morning bells and evening drums.
Elio’s Notes: These are among the recluse and Buddhist sobriquets historically associated with Li Yu, including Zhongshan Hermit, Zhongfeng Hermit, and Lotus Peak Recluse. The novel uses them to underline how seriously Li Congjia tried to withdraw from court life.
The great front hall of the residence still carried that faint red sandalwood fragrance. Behind plain hanging gauze, servants knelt in trembling rows.
“Your Highness, this gift…” The box had been meant for the Duke of Anding.
Li Hongji took it without another word and swept out.
Again, Flowing Wind Pavilion,
steeped in poetry, the passing breeze turning everything into a painting. Han Xizai watched the Crown Prince stand wordlessly beside the water. The sandalwood box in his hands slowly opened. Upon pale blue gauze lay an extraordinarily fine guqin string. Only then did Han Xizai understand. The Crown Prince had claimed urgent business and disappeared for several days because he had gone in search of the finest silk for this replacement string. Its sheen was lustrous. Who knew how many carefully selected filaments had been twisted together to create this single treasure? Day and night, he had ordered others to guard it, and he had even commissioned a special red sandalwood case,
its dark, lingering color as deep as his eyes.
He will like it.
Li Hongji clutched the tiny wooden box so tightly that Han Xizai expected anger in his eyes. Instead, when he looked, the Crown Prince was smiling brightly.
He was hiding from him.
“Crown Prince.” Han Xizai tried to console him. “The Duke of Anding has always followed his whims. He has merely gone away for a few days to clear his mind. There is no harm in giving him the string when he returns.”
Li Hongji laughed even more loudly. “Grand Tutor Han, what do you think of the koi in this lake?”
Han Xizai lowered his eyes. Sure enough, a school of fish moved happily through the water.
He was just about to answer when something struck the lake.
Li Hongji had thrown the sandalwood box into the water. Without looking back, he turned and left.
The koi scattered across the pond.
A carp wished to leap the Dragon Gate. Was that enough to make even the lotus bend over laughing?
A hermit?
He had hidden his body away and lost his heart instead.
Li Congjia had already walked some distance from the Han Residence, yet before his eyes stood the two boys they had once been.
Brothers born of the same parents. Li Hongji was the legitimate eldest son, while Li Congjia was the sixth brother who had never lacked affection from childhood.
Li Hongji had always said Sixth Brother’s wrists were beautiful, yet paid no attention at all to the double pupil everyone else praised. He was not talkative and rarely smiled, but when Li Congjia played the guqin, he would quietly tell him stories.
After so many years, Li Congjia no longer remembered what most of those stories had been about. Only the realm. Always the realm. Everyone in those stories wanted the realm. But why should it have been so difficult? You are the Crown Prince. The realm should have been yours from the beginning.
Li Congjia had once asked him,
yet all he had seen reflected in Li Hongji’s severe gaze was his own double-pupiled eye. Everyone said the Sixth Prince had been born with the countenance of an emperor.
How could Li Congjia fail to understand him?
He sighed softly and looked up at the moon. It was already well past midnight,
and Ehuang was still waiting for him. Pulling his outer robe more tightly around himself, he turned into a quiet little lane and slowly continued toward home.
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